The Year of Living Dangerously
by Gale Force
Summary: How Emma Peel first met John Steed... because you can never have too many First Meeting stories!
1. Chapter 1

The Year of Living Dangerously

Part I: January, 1965

Chapter One

The Victoria and Albert Museum was founded in 1852, when it was called the South Kensington Museum (located as it was in South Kensington). The name was changed to the Victoria and Albert in 1899, to commemorate the Queen who was celebrating her 80th birthday in that year. Its collection spans 5,000 years of art, from ancient times to the present day, in virtually every medium, from cultures around the world. 

Each of its many galleries has a curator and an assistant curator – men, and the occasional woman, who spent their time in the inner sanctum of their offices or in the depths of the museum where the majority of the collection is stored, and only occasionally ventured out into the galleries themselves, when a visitor of particular interest was in the museum.

It was one of the tasks of the guards stationed in each gallery to inform a curator should someone of particular interest show themselves.

Assistant curator Edward Foljam bustled primly toward the Forster Gallery – comprised of the Leonardo Da Vinci material that John Forster had donated to the museum in 1872 – for he had been informed that Mrs. Emma Peel had arrived. 

Foljamhad met the young lady last year, when she'd interviewed him for a magazine article on Da Vinci's work, and had fallen in love with her on the spot. (He had thus told the guard on duty to tell him if ever Mrs. Peel returned, and the guard, Faversham by name, had not failed him.)

He bustled into the Gallery. "Mrs. Peel," he said warmly.

The tall brunette turned, and smiled at him. Her auburn hair swirled about her shoulders and Foljam could not help but notice that her face, with its mobile brows over candid eyes, and long, straight nose over sensuous lips, was a piece of art in itself. He wished he had the nerve to tell her that she should have been a most worthy subject to be immortalized by Leonardo himself. 

"You got my note, I hope." he said. "You were so kind as to send me the _Futures Past _magazine containing your article on Leonardo and his _ouvre _here at the Victoria and Albert. I so appreciated your mentioning me in such glowing terms."

"I could do no less, Mr. Foljam. Your assistance was invaluable to me. I hope the article resulted in an increase of visitors to the Forster Gallery?"

Foljam's lips worked, but he could not tell a lie. "I'm sure it did, Mrs. Peel, but I could not say for certain. We don't keep track of visitors to individual galleries, I'm afraid, so there's no way of knowing."

She raised an eyebrow at him. Foljam's heart did a flip-flop.

But, "You surprise me," is all she said. "I should have thought the museum would have kept track of the number of visitors to each and every gallery, to see which ones were most popular and so on."

"It_ is_ a good idea," Foljam said quickly. "I'll certainly put it to the Chief Curator at our next meeting."

She smiled at him. "It's not necessary, Mr. Foljam. It's just something I'd have done, had I been in charge."

"Oh, but it's an excellent idea, Mrs. Peel." _Stop gushing_, he told himself sternly. 

He clasped his hands together, more to keep them from shaking than anything else, and said, "Is there anything I can show you today, Mrs. Peel?" _Oh, god_. "I mean, any particular work you'd care to see more closely?" _Oh_, god. 

All of the works of Da Vinci were kept under glass, but for special visitors he was allowed to take them from their protective cases so that they could be examined more closely. She'd know that's what he _meant _to say. Please god.

"No, thank you, Mr. Foljam. I was just in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by."

"I..I am delighted you did so."

She smiled at him again and he felt his heart lurch. She had such a devastating smile. His eyes darted desperately here and there...he didn't want to leave just yet...

"Are you writing another article?" finally came to him.

She had turned and was strolling slowly along, gazing up at the framed prints on the wall. He walked at her side. 

"I'm _always _writing an article," she said, charmingly, "but nothing to do with the Victoria and Albert or its collection at the moment."

He knew she called herself _Mrs. _Peel, obviously, but he also knew that she was a widow. Her husband had been a test pilot, and he'd died in a crash a couple of years ago. He'd read about it at the time, and seen her picture in the paper. They'd only been married for a couple of years, too. Very sad... 

"Have you been to the Louvre, Mr. Foljam?" she asked him, still gazing up at the prints.

"I...I.."

"I suppose I should be more precise. Have you seen the Mona Lisa?" 

"Yes, I have," Foljam said, pleased that she seemed curious about him. "Indeed, I have traveled across the continent to view Da Vinci's works. All that are in public hands, of course."

"What do you think of it? The Mona Lisa, I mean."

Foljam's lips worked, as he longed to tell her that _her _smile was like the Mona Lisa's, but he couldn't do it.

"It's a most interesting work. You've noticed the background, I'm sure - the one side doesn't match the other?"

"I've _read _that," she replied in a considering tone of voice, "but to me it's such a subtle difference...I'm not sure if its really true."

"Well..." Foljam launched into speech about the mysteries of the Mona Lisa, from the lack of facial hair such as eyebrows and eyelashes, to the meaning of the famously enigmatic smile, and he could tell Mrs. Peel was listening to him intently. He was in his element, now, and lost his stammer and spoke with confidence. 

After she'd left his gallery, with another of her smiles and a caress from her eyes...well, she probably didn't _mean _to caress him with her eyes but that's what it seemed like to him, Foljam returned to his office, and made himself a cup of tea. 

He took out the issue of _Futures Past _that she'd sent to him. Not only had she thanked him in the article itself, but she'd included a note to him as well -- hand-written, too – 

Foljam opened the magazine to her article. Beneath the title was a small thumbnail photo of her, smiling at the camera. He gazed at it for a few seconds, then closed the magazine and placed it back in his bottom drawer. He sat up with a sigh, and sipped his tea.

If she came back...he'd speak to her. Ask her if she'd like a coffee, or something.

Yes, thought Foljam a little forlornly...if she came back...


	2. Chapter 2

The Year of Living Dangerously

Part I: January, 1965

Chapter Two

Emma Peel loved to drive, but there was no sense driving in London when it could take you hours to find a parking space most of the time, and with its comprehensive public transport service there was generally no need to. The Tube, or even a double-decker bus, could take her anywhere she wanted to go. Indeed, she enjoyed riding on the top of those bright red icons of London life, from which it was so easy to get such a good view of the passing scenery and passing people...a people-watcher's dream come true.

She had set out from her flat on this day, therefore, with plimsolls on, and after several hours of traversing the unyielding marble floors of various museums, returned to her flat as energetically as when she'd left. She'd had no idea for an article in mind, actually, she'd just felt like doing the rounds of a few art museums today, soaking in the beauty on display.

Emma slipped off her plimsolls and padded into the kitchen to make a cup of tea, then returned to the living room to go through her post, which she'd collected from the doorman upon her return.

She took her paper knife, a miniature _katana_, or Samurai long sword, and slit open all the envelopes, before returning to the first one and sliding out its enclosure.

Bill. Bill. Cheque from the magazine _The Music Experience _- one of those magazines that she wrote for but did not in fact publish. An invitation from Bridge Partners, International to take part in a tournament in March. A request for an interview.

Emma paused...sipped her tea... re-read the letter. 

Someone named Staunton, Patrick Staunton, of the _British Business Bulletin_, wanted to interview her for a series on British businesswomen...but they were not interested in her current role as the publisher of, and writer for, her stable of magazines. They wanted to talk about her time at Knight Industries. 

Six years ago...

At age 21, she'd succeeded her recently deceased father as chairman of the board of his company. She'd been a _cause celebe _for quite a few months on the strength of her youth and sex. A few...painful... months. 

Emma contemplated the letter, then shook her head. Her story of woe might be of use to other women aspiring to rise into management...but no...the memories involved were too painful, even today. No, she would not give an interview. 

Staunton had provided his phone number at the bottom of the letter, but Emma decided she would not call him. As an interviewer herself, she knew that once you got a possible interview-_ee_ on the phone, you didn't take no for an answer. She would simply write the man a polite letter, declining the request. 

Having decided that, she picked up the next letter...and saw that it was from Knight Industries.

There was serendipity for you, she thought wryly. Or perhaps it was indeed "the flux" as a friend of hers termed it. "The magnetic flux about the earth that causes like events to occur simultaneously or in sequence." In other words, there was no such thing as coincidence.

She'd sold her controlling interest in Knight Industries within a year after she'd become chairman...she'd taken the money and invested it in her own business which she'd built up to be quite successful and now she was wealthy in her own right, as Emma Peel...she wanted no reminders of the past.

Why would they write to her after all this time?

But..._who _was writing to her, come to that?

The envelope had a Knight Industries logo on it, but there was no name. Unprofessional, that.

She unfolded the sheet of paper.

There was no return address at the top, no name at the end, only two bits of typewriting.

Knight Industries is being sold to Saxon Systems, for far more than its worth. 

Perhaps you should look into it.

Emma stared at the words for a few seconds, then shrugged.

She was surprised that the company was still in business, frankly, and it was no concern of hers if the men who now ran it - and the men who were its competitors - had arranged among themselves to transfer its assets in a way most profitable to themselves. 

She'd no connection with it or its employees. She'd washed her hands of it long ago.

Emma replaced the letter in its envelope and tossed it in the rubbish bin.

She poured herself another cup of tea, and sipped thoughtfully. _Of course_, she realized. That was why Staunton had written her out of the blue requesting an interview. He'd learned the news of the company being sold, and he'd wanted to interview her about it because she was timely again.

Well, she was even less inclined to do an interview now. She'd better type up her letter of refusal and get it into the post straightaway.


	3. Chapter 3

The Year of Living Dangerously

Part I: January, 1965

Chapter Three

Once her publishing business became successful - she started out with one magazine on bridge and one on the history of science...and now, six years later, published over twenty of them, Emma Peel took to coming in to the office only on Tuesdays and Fridays.

Each of the magazines had its own editor and sub-editors, as well as its own production staff, who assembled the contents of each magazine - from gathering the articles for each issue, to gathering the photographs, to designing the interior, to selling advertisements. Peel Publishing ran like a well-oiled machine. And with no board of directors to gum up the works, it was profitable and successful and run by her vision alone.

On this particular Tuesday, Emma had a leisurely breakfast, eating toast and jam while idly reading the _Times_. She turned to the Financial pages to see if there was any mention of the sale of Knight Industries, but there was nothing.

She turned to her horoscope, which she had read every day without fail for the last couple of months. She didn't believe a word of the predictions contained therein - but she was toying with doing an article - a puff piece on how absolutely wrong each day's predictions had been.

"You will run into a dark, handsome stranger," it read.

"Well, I'll be looking forward to that." she murmured.

Emma drove to work, as she never had any trouble finding a parking spot there. What was the use of being the publisher of a vast array of magazines if one couldn't have a reserved spot in the parking lot of one's own building?

Emma drove her blue Lotus Elan with smooth efficiency through the streets of the city, then turned into the parking lot and headed towards her reserved spot. Even though it was reserved - it was not located just outside the front doors of the building, as with practically any other executive you'd care to name. She didn't care how far she had to walk to get to her office, she just cared that she had a spot to walk from! It was this policy, one among many, that endeared her to her employees.

Emma frowned slightly to see a lorry parked in front of her spot... lorries shouldn't be in this area of the parking lot, let alone _parked _here. She passed behind it and turned the wheel sharply, then jammed on her brakes just in time. There was a car - a bloody Bentley! - in _her _space. And she'd just run into its bumper.

And given a bit of a jolt to the man sitting in the driver's seat.

Well, serve him right if he'd knocked his head on the dashboard.

Emma reversed gears, backed up, and parked in front of a couple of other cars. She climbed lithely out of the Lotus and strode forward, intending to give the man a piece of her mind.

He'd gotten out of the Bentley, and was bending over, checking the bumper. One hand was to his head.

"No harm done," he said cheerfully, straightening up and turning to her. His hand held a handkerchief pressed to his forehead and there was a trickle of red beneath it.

Emma's left eyebrow rose. "I'm glad to hear it," she said.

He was a tall man...about four inches taller than she, squarely built - a shape that pleased Emma in a man, so much nicer than the string-bean type - and he filled out his black turtleneck sweater nicely. His face was round, his dark eyes deeply set under heavy lids, his smile rueful.

She'd run, literally, into a tall, dark stranger... "I_ do_ believe," murmured Emma. "I do, I do, I do, I _do."_

"I beg your pardon?"

Emma thought that she wouldn't tell him that his presence had just rendered two months of research on the uselessness of horoscopes completely moot. Although frankly one prediction right out of sixty was hardly anything to brag about.

What kind of a reporter drove a _Bentley_, anyway? Well...perhaps he was like her and made quite a good living at it. And he was certainly good-natured.

Emma sighed. "Well, you'd better come in."

"Mrs. Peel, I'm here to ask you a few questions..." he said as they strode toward the building.

"Yes, I know," she said. She hadn't intended to submit to an interview, but when a writer showed as much initiative as he had, it would be churlish to refuse him.

"Miss Clanton," she said, as they walked into the lobby. "I need your first aid kit, please. And there's a lorry parked where it shouldn't be. Find out who the driver is, and give him a rocket from me, will you?"

"Yes, Mrs. Peel."

"And my car is parked behind two _other _cars." She handed over her keys. "If anyone needs to get out for any reason..."

"Yes, Mrs. Peel."

They walked toward her office. Steed sped up his pace slightly so that he could reach the door first and open it for her. She inclined her head and preceded him into the room.

"Do sit down," she said.

She proceeded to open up the first aid kit and remove mineral spirits, a pad, and a piece of sticking plaster.

"That's really not necessary," he said, eyeing her preparations. "It's just a small gash."

"This won't take a moment," she told him briskly. "Tilt your head up for me, will you?"

His dark brown eyes gazed up at her, as she swabbed the cut - not too deep - with the pad soaked in mineral spirits - and then placed a sticking plaster over it.

"You've got marvelously gentle hands," he told her.

"I"ve had some nursing training," she told him coldly. She didn't approve of interviewers flirting with their subjects.

She settled down behind her own desk, and sighed.

"Well...you wanted to know about my time with Knights Industries."

For some reason he stared at her rather blankly before smiling and saying, "Why, yes."

Emma steepled her fingers. Best to be completely candid...other women...and men of course...should learn as early as possible in their careers not to make the mistake she had made..

"I was 21 when my father died. He had been grooming me to take over for him eventually..."

She stopped. "Aren't you going to take notes?"

"Oh, yes. Yes, of course." He patted his chest, as if thinking he was wearing a suit coat with its inner pockets, then smiled ruefully. "You know...I think I forgot and left it in the car."

"Well, hitting your head will do that to you," she said. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a an empty steno pad and a biro, which she passed over to him.

He opened up the pad, poised the biro, and looked expectantly at her.

"I was feted by the newspapers, as you doubtless know. Only 21 and in charge of a major industrial company. And I faced a crisis almost immediately. One of our board members, Jack Keller, was an automation expert, and he'd been pressing for us to "modernize" - increase our efficiency 100, and maximize our profits."

"Yes?" he said, as she paused.

"Well.._I _was in favor of it, frankly. Made perfect sense to me. But the rest of the board members were dead set against it. And my father had been dead set against it. And so..." she spread her hands... "I decided to honor my father's wishes."

"So you sacked him."

Emma nodded. "Terrible mistake. I knew it at the time. But I took full responsibility for it. I felt I needed to. _I _sacked him, and that's how the paper reported it. And all the time I knew it was a mistake and was going to ruin the company."

"Surely not."

"Oh, yes, it was obvious..._should _have been obvious...to anyone. Automation was the way of the future. But it would have cost a great deal to install the machines to start with - and no one wanted to bear that cost. They couldn't see that it those machines would pay for themselves a dozen times over within just a few years."

"What happened to Keller?"

"Well, he was upset, obviously. I called him into my office and told him privately - I owed him that. And _that _was difficult. Sacking someone whom you knew was in the right. I couldn't tell him I knew he was in the right - that would have just been rubbing salt in the wound..." Emma paused...shaking her head...the shame of that moment had taken some time to leave her. But, after all..she knew he'd be hired by another company within a week - no forward thinking company would left a man with his skills go without a job for very long.

"But what happened to him?"

Emma shrugged. "He gave me a tongue-lashing, and I sit and took it. And then he left. We gave him a generous severance package, of course. Enough to tide him over for six months. But I'm sure one of our competitors snapped him up like _that_."

"But you don't know?"

Emma shook her head. "I was wrestling with my own demons. I knew _he'd_ be alright. I'd just sacked the man who could have taken Knight Industries to the forefront of our field, and no one else thought I'd done anything stupid. I couldn't stand it. I didn't want to stay around and see the aftermath. I just...gave up. I told the board I could see we were poles apart on how the company should be run, and I asked them to buy me out. Which they did. So, within six months of becoming chairman of the board of my father's company, I had sold my shares and retired, and Knight Industries belonged to others."

"You had no other family to advise you?" he asked curiously.

Emma shook her head. "I was an only child. My mother died when I was quite young. It was just my father and me."

She leaned forward. "But I made a mistake, and that is what you must make your readers understand. I _should _have fought the board - because it would have been the right thing to do. Not only because it was my father's legacy to me, but because it would have _saved _the company, and the jobs of my employees."

"Well, but Knight Industries is still in business."

Emma leaned back. "No longer a leader in the field, though. Within three years, they'd fallen about as far as you could fall and still be in business. They had to automate, you see, eventually. Years behind everyone else. They were never able to recover from that delay. Quite a few people lost their jobs needlessly..."

"But wouldn't that have happened with the automation anyway?"

"Knight Industries was extremely prosperous at the time. And far-reaching. Anyone displaced by the machines would have been reassigned to other areas. There would have been plenty of work for all - because the company would have grown even more. But with their new situation..they had to sack the men simply in order to be able to afford to automate. Bad business all around."

"So... you formed Peel Publishing, instead."

"Knight Publishing." she corrected. "Yes... My real love was knowledge - learning, researching, disseminating that knowledge to others. That's another reason why I left Knight Industries - publishing was my true calling.

Then I met Peter Peel, the test pilot, and we married. I had intended to keep my company as Knight Publishing even after my marriage...but when he died I decided to honor him, and changed the name."

"And so Knight Industries is finally being sold."

"Yes, so I've heard."

"Oh, who told you?"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "Does it matter?"

"No," he said absently. "I suppose not. So, you haven't kept in touch with anyone at Knight Industries? In these last six years?"

"No." _My father's life work_, she thought to herself, _and I didn't fight for it. But I couldn't have won_.

"..., Mrs. Peel?"

"I'm sorry. What?"

"I said, not a single soul has been in contact with you?"

Emma was irritated by the repeat question. What did it matter? "I said, no."

"Well.." he stood up and extended a hand, "You've been very helpful, Mrs. Peel, thank you."

"You'll let me have a look at the article when it's done?"

"The article? Um, yes...certainly."

She saw him to the door, and watched him walk out into the parking lot.

Miss Clanton gave her back her keys. "The lorry driver's been taken care of," she reported. "And your car is in that spot now."

"Thank you, Miss Clanton."

Emma returned to her office and took up the scheduling book for _Futures Past _magazine. Every article that went into an issue of a magazine was planned for months in advance, and she liked to see what was on the schedule, and how many articles had been delivered by their respective authors on time, and how many were "hanging fire."

About ten minutes later, Emma's office phone buzzed. "Yes?"

"There's a Mr. Patrick Staunton here to see you, Mrs. Peel."

Emma stared at the squat little machine. "Again? Did he forget something?"

"What?" said Miss Clanton. "He's a reporter from the _British Business Bulletin_, says he'd like an interview with you."

Emma leapt to her feet and opened the door. A tall, bean-pole thin man with a thatch of badly-cut blonde hair stood in front of Miss Clanton's desk.

"_You're _Patrick Staunton?" she demanded.

"Yes, I..."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Staunton," Emma said briskly. "I never give interviews. There's a letter in the post telling you so."

"Yes, but..."

"Goodbye, Mr. Staunton."

Emma closed the door firmly, with him on the other side.

If _that _was Patrick Staunton, _who _had she been talking to in her office for the last ten minutes... and _why_?


	4. Chapter 4

The Year of Living Dangerously

Part I: January, 1965

Chapter Four

When the "modern" Olympics were resurrected in 1896, women were not allowed to compete. However, the women of the world were not prepared to accept being excluded from such fun activities, and in each subsequent Olympics, women were represented (albeit a mere handful compared to the male athletes involved).

In anticipation of the woman's new standing as an active individual, a group of suffragettes founded the Athena Ladies Athletic Club in the heart of London. It consisted of a swimming pool, and rooms for one to practice foil fencing and gymnastics.

By the time foil fencing for women had been introduced to the Summer Olympics in 1924, which took place in Paris, British women had progressed so well that Gladys Muriel Davis won the Silver. In 1928, in Amsterdam, Muriel Freeman won the Silver, and in 1932 it was Judy Guinness. Finally, in 1956, Guillian Sheen actually won the Gold.

The Athena Ladies Athletic Club modestly claimed to have had some slight responsibility in this excellence showing, and indeed, many of their members had gone on to make their names in the Olympics and other sporting events.

Emma Knight had joined the club while at University, concentrating on fencing and swimming, and indeed, had once harbored a dream to represent her country in the Olympics. This had been derailed by having to take over her father's business, albeit for only a short time - nevertheless she had remained a member ever since.

For the last year or so, she'd arranged her schedule so that she went to the club every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, but after her discussion with the mystery man this morning, she felt the need to swim away some tension.

She spent the noon hour, therefore, doing laps in the club's Olympic-sized pool, as she thought over the situation.

She'd erred badly, obviously, in not asking the man in the Bentley for identification. It was the "flux" again - she'd been thinking about Knight Industries and here was someone who "had some questions for her...she'd just assumed it had been the magazine man, Patrick Staunton.

But it hadn't been, so who on Earth could it have been?

And why? Why talk to her about a company she'd had nothing to do with for six years?

"Knight Industries is being sold to Saxon Systems, for far more than its worth."

That's what her anonymous letter had said. Well, if it was being sold for far more than it was worth, that was a matter for the Industry ministry... again, there'd be no need to talk to _her _about it.

Then she remembered her mysterious visitor's apparent puzzlement, when she'd told him she'd heard the company was being sold. He'd asked her how she knew. She hadn't thought anything about it at the time but surely that was an odd question to ask. Obviously, if it had been reported in the papers...

But what if it hadn't been reported in the papers? What if no one was supposed to know?

But then, how had Patrick Staunton known?

Emma returned to the office with her plan of action mapped out.

"Miss Clanton, get me the phone numbers for the_ British Business Bulletin _and Saxon Systems."

She settled in her chair with steno pad and biro in front of her, when Miss Clanton buzzed her.

"I have those numbers," she said, and read them off.

"Thank you, Miss Clanton. Please put a call in to the _BBB_ and ask if the publisher will talk to me."

A mere seconds later, Miss Clanton buzzed her again. "Mr. Denton is on the line, Miss Peel."

"Than you."

There was a click, and then Denton's voice was saying, "Hello?"

"Mr. Denton? This is Emma Peel." (She knew that Miss Clanton had done the spadework, identifying her as the owner of Peel Publishers. That's why she'd had her put the call through.)

"Yes, Mrs. Peel? How can I help you?"

"I'm calling to find out if you have a reporter or journalist on staff named Patrick Staunton."

"Staunton...Staunton?"

"Yes."

"Well...it doesn't sound familiar, Mrs. Peel, but please give me a minute or two to check my records."

"Thank you."

She doodled on her steno pad as she waited...cubist type boxes and triangles.

"Mrs. Peel? No, there's no one named Staunton on our staff, and no freelancer of that name has been commissioned to do any writing for us."

Emma nodded. Suspicion confirmed. "Thank you, Mr. Denton."

She rang off, and contemplated her steno pad.

So. The news about the sale of Knight Industries to Saxon Systems was _not _common knowledge. And it was causing ructions for some reason.

And she was going to find out why.

Emma plucked up the receiver again, and dialed the number of Saxon Systems.

"May I speak with Adam Penthallen, please? This is Emma Palmer. I am a writer for _Futures Past _magazine."

After a few seconds, "This is Adam Penthallen."

"Mr. Penthallen. Emma Palmer here. I am doing a feature on British industry, and I wonder if I might have an interview with you at your convenience?"

"I"m familiar with your magazine, Miss Palmer. I'd be quite pleased to give you an interview. Shall we say..." there was the rustle of calendar pages being turned over... "tomorrow at noon? I'll take you for lunch at my club."

"Lovely."

He gave her the address, and then she rang off.

Emma wrote down her nom de plume, Emma Palmer, on a sheet of paper, and carried it out to the receptionist. "Miss Clancy, if anyone calls asking if someone named Emma Palmer works here, you'll tell them that she's a freelancer on the payroll, all right?"

The efficient Miss Clancy nodded and took the paper. "It shall be done, Mrs. Peel."

"I'm going to be doing some research into Saxon Systems. I might not be around for a few days."

Miss Clancy nodded. "Very good."


	5. Chapter 5

The Year of Living Dangerously

Part I: January, 1965

Chapter Five

Men had it easy, Emma Peel sighed as she looked at herself in the mirror.

When _they _wanted to disguise themselves, all they had to do was stick on a false moustache and beard, and they'd rendered themselves unrecognizable.

Women did not have that easy solution.

Her own hair hidden under a tightly-fitted cap, Emma tugged on a blonde wig, so arranged that the hair at the back was clasped together in a tight bun. Men didn't remember women's hair-styles, but changing one's color from brunette to blonde...that altered one's whole reception by the opposite sex.

She placed large, round glasses on her nose. They enlarged her eyes and made her look like an owl. She blinked...did the disguise they afforded make up for the fact that she wouldn't be able to see while wearing them? Perhaps smaller, half-moon glasses, over which she could peer...hunch her shoulders and cut her athletic stride down to a mincing walk.

But...the main disguise...

She slipped on a padded skirt and blouse that made her look forty pounds heavier, and pulled a dark blazer over the lot.

Perfect. No one would give her a second glance.

Emma had worked her idea out while on her swim yesterday, and had spent the morning at a theatrical costumiers getting fitted for this costume.

Her reasoning was simple. While she may not have had any contact with Knight Industries or its competitors in the last six years, there were still men around who had known her, and might remember her. And clearly - _someone _connected with these firms had some interest in her. And she didn't know why. It would be best, therefore, if there was no way that anyone could recognize her as she conducted her investigation.

It would be rather fun, she thought, to infiltrate her old haunts in disguise, and solve this mystery.

Emma hesitated, then decided that she may as well get as used to her new "look" as possible. Checking her appearance once more in the mirror, she adjusted her shoulders, creased her eyes over the half-moon glasses, and walked out of her flat.

She was ignored by the doorman, and attracted no glances from anyone as she walked to the nearest Tube station and descended into the depths.

She caught herself walking with too much confidence and energy, and forced herself to slow down. She must play her role at all times, even when there was no one round whom she needed to play to. It was easier to stay in character at all times, she had found, when she had tried acting at school, then to slip in and out of it, as some of the more accomplished actors had had no problem doing.

She took the Tube to Russell Square, home of the British Museum and, more importantly for her purposes, the British Library, which had archives of practically every newspaper under the sun, from the year jot onward, preserved on microfilm. She spent the next several hours pouring over the _Financial Times _for the last several years, reading up not only on the last six years of Knight Industries, but on the history of Saxon Systems, as well.

After coming out of the Library with her steno pad full of notes and her head swimming full of information, she paused. She was confident that her disguise was full-proof...and if she saw anyone she knew it would be through a distance of six years...nevertheless perhaps she should put her disguise to the test.

She looked at her watch...everyone she knew was probably still at their offices, or too far away to be of any use...and besides it wouldn't be fair on her disguise to try to deceive someone who knew her well...who could she... what about Mr. Foljam?

Emma was not a conceited woman, but she was a woman of the world and she knew a man who had a crush on her when she saw one. And Mr. Foljam was such a man.

He was rather cute, in his diffident way, she thought, as she walked into the Forster Gallery, passing the guard standing, as usual, in the corner. She walked around the gallery for a few seconds - it was a small one, consisting of the Forster Codex under vitrines that ran down the center of the room. Each case had one of the three volumes in the codex, opened to an appropriate page, flanked by replica pages.

On the walls were other, framed replica pages from Da Vinci's notebooks - in particular the ones in which he'd sketched his artwork.

Time for the test. Emma approached the guard.

"I have some questions about these exhibits. Is the curator free? Or the assistant curator?"

The guard looked at her without recognition. "Mr. Foljam is in his office, Miss. I'll see if he's free." And he put a radio microphone to his lips.

Emma nodded, and returned to the center vitrine.

"He'll be with you shortly, miss," the guard called after a few seconds.

"Ta," she said.

A couple of minutes later, she heard a familiar voice.

"Yes, madam, how may I help you?"

She looked up to see Foljam, gazing at her with his fresh, sincere face and absolutely no recognition.

She spoke with him for fifteen minutes about Leonardo da Vinci - demanding to know why he wrote backwards, and why he never seemed to finish any of his works, and if anyone had ever tried to get any of his inventions to work, being careful to speak with a somewhat higher register and a Northern accent.

As she had noticed even when she was speaking with him in her own persona, once he got started talking on his subject he spoke with fluency, detailed knowledge, and enthusiasm - he clearly loved his work.

"Well, you've been very helpful," she said finally. "Thank you."

"It has been my pleasure madam," he said with a slight bow. "We are here to serve."

"You seem to enjoy your work very much."

Foljam's face lit up. "Oh, I do, madam. I admire Da Vinci very much. It is a pleasure to talk with people who share the same enthusiasm."

"You could write a book about him."

"Well," Foljam seemed embarrassed. She recognized the way he glanced around as if searching for something to say, while his mouth worked. Finally he said, "I _am _writing a book, as a matter of fact. But it's so difficult, with his notebooks scattered in museums around the Continent. One wants to see them all in person, of course, but one's finances..."

Emma nodded sympathetically, as she made an inner note to see if she - or rather her publishing company - could do something to help him, in an anonymous sort of way (for she did not want to encourage him in any other way except professionally. That would be too awkward.)

Emma left the museum, convinced that her disguise was more than adequate for her upcoming interview at Saxon Systems.

Unless she dropped out of character, she thought disgustedly, as she realized she was walking too fast again, and deliberately dropped back into her measured step and hunched-shoulder walk as she made her way back to her flat.

She let herself in with her key through the rear entrance, since she didn't want to run the gauntlet of the doorman, who would demand what business she had in the building. She entered her flat and leaned against the door for a few seconds, conscious that the day's "adventure" was over. She was still feeling rather exhilarated at her success.

Emma took a long, hot shower, then she put a couple of chops on the broiler for dinner, and settled down with her steno pad full of notes on Saxon Systems and Knight Industries, for she had a lot of studying to do before the next day's interview.


	6. Chapter 6

The Year of Living Dangerously

Part I: January, 1965

Chapter Six

Emma Peel's mother having died when she was a child, she had been brought up by a Japanese nanny named Amaterasu. It had been a fortuitous choice on her father's part. Amaterasu was the descendant of samurai...indeed, she claimed that she was a descendant of Tomoe Gozen, one of a very few female samurai who had led troops into battle.

Amaterasu had been very protective of her charge - and had begun teaching her karate at a very early age. Emma was not the only girl - or woman - to be taught the Asian martial arts in Britain in the 1950s, however. Sarah Mayer, who had earned a black belt in judo when she lived in Japan in the 1930s, had returned to her own country and started her own school - or dojo - in Surrey. The Athena Club had taken note of her activities and started their own Asian Martial Arts classes in London. (Only a handful of girls each year attended these classes, it must be said...adventurous girls who were dedicated to the art, and profited by their lessons.)

"I can see Tomoe Gozen in you," Amaterasu had told her once. "Your martial prowess...your intelligence...your wide-ranging curiosity - you are like Tomoe Gozen reborn."

Emma had smiled. "I was born at just the right time, I think," she had said in return. "So many women have preceeded me who have had all these qualities also, but they were not allowed to reach their full potential - or to even _try _to do so. I have the freedom to go anywhere and try anything that piques my curiosity, and I'm very grateful to those who have paved the way for me."

Emma thought about that conversation the next morning, as she prepared for her interview with Adam Penthallen.

She'd read maths and engineering at University, but had dabbled in just about every type of arts class they offered - she'd tried her hand at sculpture and at painting, in dance, in acting, she'd taken up bridge and chess, and so on. She'd been quite adequate in most of the arts...including acting. She'd enjoyed learning how to do accents, how to modulate her voice for effect, what one's body language conveyed about oneself to others...but she hadn't really enjoyed learning

Tomoe Gozen: (1157?–1247?) She was a samurai during the time of the Genpei War (1180–1185).

Sarah Mayer: Feb 27, 1935 - first non-Japanese woman to be awarded black belt rank in Kodokan Judo.

And don't forget the "Ju-jutsu suffragettes" of 1910 such as Mrs. Garrud and Mrs. Watts.

lines for her roles. She had a good memory - that was not the problem...she just didn't want to speak other people's words...she wanted to write her own.

So she hadn't spent more than a couple of terms in acting class...and now she was going to need to draw on all of that long-unused skill...It was only the task of subsuming her character into another's that had her concerned...for with her engineering background she had no fears about the technical aspects of the interview.

Saxon Systems was a British aerospace company, working towards putting the first British astronaut into space. Ever since the Russians had launched the first satellite into orbit, 8 years ago, the "free world" had started the race to get to the Moon first. The Americans intended to get their first, but Britain thought it would be a great coup, and restore their position of pre-eminence in the world - if _they _were the first.

She still had no clue _why _they want to purchase Knight Industries. She'd been unable to find any mention of KI in six year's worth of the _Financial Times _that revealed that they worked on _anything _that would be of interest to such a firm.

Well...there had to be _something_, and she would find it.

Emma paused only briefly at the entrance to Saxon Systems headquarters, took a deep breath, and then pushed in.

"I'm here to see Mr. Penthallen." she told the receptionist in her northern accent, and handed her a business card in that name (which she'd had made at the office the previous night.)

"If you'll wait a moment," said the receptionist, picking up the phone and pressing a buzzer.

Adam Penthallen, a tall, portly, balding man, came out into the foyer to greet her.

"Miss Palmer," he said, extending a hand. "Delighted to meet you."

"Thank you for agreeing to this interview."

"Not at all. Saxon Systems is at the forefront of the aerospace field, we are happy to represent ourselves to the public. Now, I said I'd take you to lunch at my club. Would you like a tour of the building first, or afterwards?"

"Oh, the tour first, please."

"Good. This way, then."

They started walking down the hall. Penthallen was considerate, Emma noted. Although he had a long stride he deliberately shortened it so that she could keep up with him. As Emma Peel she could have matched him stride for stride, as Emma Palmer she would have been skipping along, most undignified.

"It's mostly offices, here," Penthallen said. "A few of our boffins. Our manufacturing facilities our located in Surbiton..."

"I'm hoping to do as complete a profile as possible," Emma said. "I hope I'll be able to see your manufacturing facilities?"

"Well...not today," Penthallen said. "But..." he smiled. "We are laying on a tour for some people later on in the week. Some reporters from the US have come over and we're going to be showing them around."

"Is that wise?" asked Emma. "I mean, we're in a race with the States, aren't we?"

"Oh, hardly a race," Penthallen said easily. "We're friends with the Americans, you know. The idea is for the free world to get to the Moon first, it hardly matters if it's the States or us."

"Quite," said Emma, not believing a word of it.

"I'll go ahead and arrange it, then. I'll have my secretary give you the details before we leave for lunch."

He opened a door, and ushered her into a large room full of huge drafting tables.

"Well, here are our engineers at their drawing boards," said Penthallen.

After the tour, Penthallen escorted Emma to his black Jaguar, and drove her the mile to his club, where they had lunch. Emma had spoken knowledgeably of engineering during the tour and asked intelligent questions - carefully maintaining her Northern accent, and by the time they started lunch Penthallen was speaking with her at his ease, confident that she would know what he was talking about.

"I must say I'm impressed with your knowledge," he said as they had their coffee. "Where did you go to school?"

_Always tell a lie as close to the truth as possible_, Emma knew, and so she gave him the name of her own University.

They arrived back at Saxon Systems chatting like old friends. Penthallen parked the Jaguar in _his _spot - right next to the front doors o f the building.

Emma climbed out of the car, and closed the door. Penthallen came round to her, extending a hand. "Well, Miss Palmer, it has certainly been a pleasure."

"And mine as well." Emma said, shaking his hand. "I'm looking forward to seeing the manufacturing facilities. That will be fascinating.":

"Quite.".

Emma made as if to turn away, and then turned back. "Oh, I'm so sorry. I almost forgot a question I wanted to ask you. Knight Industries."

Penthallen stared at her, blankly. "I beg your pardon?"

"Knight Industries. You're buying it, aren't you?"

Penthallen blinked a couple of times. "Where the he...I mean, what makes you think that?"

"Oh, one has one's sources," Emma said, deliberately mysterious, tapping her nose with her finger.

Penthallen ungritted his teeth. "Well...well. You journalists." He smiled. "It was something we were rather hoping to keep under our hats, but I suppose that's impossible these days. It's true we have been negotiating to buy that company, yes. But we don't want that to get out, if you please. Would cause share prices to raise, don't you know."

"Oh, yes, of course," Emma nodded. "I shan't mention it at all in my article. But I was just wondering...why? They have nothing Saxon needs, surely?"

"Buildings," Penthallen said with a quick, bright smile. "Several of their manufacturing buildings are in an area which we particularly covet. There are other reasons, of course, but that's the main thing."

"I see," said Emma, nodding as if she did. But she didn't really. If Saxon wanted buildings, Knight Industries could just as easily sell those, without selling the entire company!

"Well, thank you again, Mr. Penthallen. I shall look forward to your call tomorrow."

"Yes." He extended his hand again. "Goodbye, Miss Palmer. I'll see you again - I'll be escorting everyone on that tour we spoke of, as well."

"Lovely," said Emma. She turned and walked away, making sure that she used her same mincing step and hunched-shoulder look. She did not look back.


	7. Chapter 7

The Year of Living Dangerously

Part I: January, 1965

Chapter Seven

**I.**

When Emma Peel needed to really think about something that was puzzling her, she put whatever it was out of her mind, and did some kind of physical activity instead, whether it be swimming laps, practicing karate or fencing, or even painting or sculpting. She had found, over the course of her 27 years, that somehow while she was engrossed in concentrating on her physical skills, subconsciously her brain still worked on the problem, and came up with solutions - or at least ideas - seemingly out of the blue.

Upon returning to her flat from her interview with Adam Penthallen, therefore, she decided that fencing would be just the ticket. She had so arranged her flat that there was a long corridor in which she could practice her footwork - advancing, retreating, and lunging. She changed into plimsolls and leotard, therefore, and began stretching.

She'd rerun her conversation with Penthallen through her head, on her way back from the interview, and decided that she'd learned very little of any use. She'd waited until the very end of the interview to try her question about Knight Industries, and wondered if she'd really been as subtle and as clever with her question as she'd thought she'd been.

There had been _something _about his reaction...something too guarded, perhaps?

She'd pondered on this as the tube clattered on its way, and she'd pondered on it as she'd gone the back way into her flat again, and she'd decided, as a last resort, to _stop _thinking about it, and see what happened.

And, as usual, an idea came to her, that really should have come to her before.

She'd waited the entire interview to ask Penthallen just one question...but what about the false Patrick Staunton, who had interviewed _her_? What was the subtle and clever question that he had no doubt asked _her_, in the midst of all his other questions. The one thing _he'd _really wanted to know about?

And then she remembered. _He _had been interested in Jack Keller, the automation expert whom she'd sacked so foolishly. He'd asked her, twice, what had become of him.

Well, what _had _become of him? Why had the false Staunton needed to ask that question? Surely Keller had been quickly hired by one of her competitors, and his ideas about automation put to work at once.

She'd better find out. Too late to do that tonight...she'd do some research on it tomorrow. She'd...should she... _yes_...she would visit Knight Industries tomorrow as well, and see what _they _had to say about the question of being bought up by Saxon Systems.

**II.**

_What had happened to Jack Keller?_

Emma Peel had spent the morning in the British Library once again, once more going through the _Financial Times _and other appropriate newspapers on microfilm, looking for information on Jack Keller.

The news of his sacking had received a lot of coverage on the day. Emma's words were quoted and she winced anew.

Keller had given one interview, the day afterwards, in which he'd pointed out that Knight Industries would go down to financial ruin because of their short-sightedness, and that automation would be the savior of mankind.

About ten days later, there was an article on Knight Industries, revealing that although Jack Keller had been sacked, he'd not been allowed to take any of his equipment or inventions with him, as they'd been developed on company time, and he was considering a lawsuit about that. "They sack me because they think my ideas are unworkable, but they won't let me take away those ideas. Does nothing strike you as odd about that?" Keller was quoted as saying.

His name had not appeared in the media again.

It _wasn't _odd, Emma thought regretfully as she drove towards Knight Industries. It was just business. Keller had signed contracts that anything he'd invented on company time, with company equipment, belonged to the company. That was standard procedure.

But what had happened to the man? In six years, it was inconceivable that no one had hired him, that he'd had nothing to say as the years went by, as automation came in to common use and Knight Industries dropped down the league table of viable companies with little ceremony.

It was as if he'd dropped off the face of the earth.

**III.**

Emma slowed down and turned into the parking lot of Knight Industries. The lot was large...and half-full. Emma parked in a far corner an got out of her car, then leaned against it as she stared at the building.

She hadn't been here in six years...it hadn't changed.

As she stood there...a dark green Bentley turn into the lot, and headed towards the front of the building.

As she watched, the false Patrick Staunton climbed out of it. He was dressed much differently today, in a grey business suit. He reached into the depths of the Bentley and pulled out a bowler hat, which he placed at a rakish angle on his head, and an umbrella, which he swung jauntily as he walked into the building.

Thoughtfully, Emma got back into her car, and settled down to wait.


	8. Chapter 8

The Year of Living Dangerously

Part I: January, 1965

Chapter Eight

**I.**

_You're sitting all on your own at the far end of a half-empty car park_, Emma told herself._ When he comes out that door, and drives away, and you follow him, starting from here, he's going to see you_.

She cast her eye about the car park. Where should she park instead? Not in the car park itself. Why not _there_, on the road that ran past the car park? There were a couple of cars parked there as well, which she could lurk behind, and still see anyone who drove out of the car park.

_Yes, that's the ticket_.

Emma shifted her car, then dug into the glovebox for a biro and her newspaper, folded back to the crossword, and settled down to wait.

As usual, as soon as Emma started concentrating on something complete different from the problem at hand, she got an idea. On this occasion, she had just finished the top corner of the crossword when the thought occurred to her... _He's seen this car_.

_Not only has he seen it, but it's run into _his _car_.

If a man was going to remember _any _car he'd seen, he'd remember the car that had run into his, even if it hadn't done any damage. If she should follow him, and if he should look into his rear-view mirror – which of course he would – and see a familiar car...even if he didn't recognize the driver in her cunning disguise...it would still rouse his suspicions.

Emma shook her head ruefully. She wasn't cut out for this kind of thing, obviously. She should have thought of that first thing.

Alright, so she couldn't follow the man. Enough to know he had _something _to do with Knight Industries.

So now what should she do? Continue with her original plan and go in and talk to the head of the company? Trust to her disguise to fool the false Patrick Staunton if he saw her?

Just as she'd decided that she would carry through her original plan, a man came out of the building. A tall, beanpole thin man with a shock of blonde hair. The _real _Patrick Staunton.

_Well, well_, thought Emma. _Looks like I'll be able to follow someone after all_.

She waited until he got into his car, a Morris Cowley, and then started the engine of her own car. He pulled out of the parking lot. Just as she was prepared to pull out of her own spot...he slowed down and parked on the side of the road.

_What's he playing at? _Emma thought. Then she chuckled. She knew exactly what was going on. The _real _Patrick Staunton was going to follow the _false _Patrick Staunton. She'd bet money on it.

And then...she was going to follow the _real _Patrick Staunton.

**II.**

_This is rather like a French farce_, Emma thought to herself as she drove behind the real Patrick Staunton's Morris Cowley. She kept half a block behind it, and assumed that _Staunton _was staying at least half a block behind the false Staunton's Bentley.

But really, what did the distance of half a block mean? It might be possible to follow someone on foot - you could always duck into a convenient doorway should they look behind them, but what could you do in a car? If they looked behind them, they saw your car, and there was nothing you could do about it.

They were on the Industrial Road, which was long and winding. There was no need to feel suspicious should the same car be behind you for the entire length of the road. But when they got to the "main drag," as the Americans put it, the choice between the B routes and the motorway, what would happen then? If there was enough traffic it just _might _be possible...

After a few more minutes they indeed did come to a crossroads. The Bentley turned onto the B29, the country road, and the Morris Cowley did likewise.

Emma paused her car at the crossroads, and watched the two cars proceeding down the lane. Then she took a deep breath, shrugged, said "Heigh ho," and followed suit.

Emma took her foot off the accelerator and slowed down even further. She knew this road. There were a few farmhouses, but no place to turn off until one arrived in the village of Finchley.

About five minutes later, Emma took her foot off the accelerator even more, as in the distance, she saw the two cars parked in the drive of a farmhouse, which was set back several hundred yards from the road.

_Alright, Emma_, she thought. _There's something going on in that house. Just drive by, make a note of the address, and come back later on and do some investigating_...

As Emma drove slowly past the two cars, she had her eyes on the road in front of her and didn't notice the disheveled figure of the real Patrick Staunton appear suddenly from a dip in the ground and run desperately for his car. Behind him, the false Patrick Staunton appeared, only slightly less disheveled, running toward his car.

Staunton scrambled into his car, let in the gear and floored the petrol. (He had not turned off the engine.) His tires spun uselessly for a second, but just as the false Patrick Staunton reached out to grab his collar, the tires caught traction and the car roared onto the road.

The false Patrick Staunton climbed into his Bentley, maneuvered the various levers that started the car, and set out in pursuit.


	9. Chapter 9

The Year of Living Dangerously

Part I: January, 1965

Chapter Nine

**I.**

Emma Peel glanced into the rear view mirror and blinked. Surely that was Patrick Staunton's car coming up on her so rapidly?

With a shrill blow of the horn as an accompaniment, Staunton's car passed her with inches to spare between the two of them, on the extremely narrow B road. Emma had time to notice that his face was bloody as he rocketed by.

Emma looked behind her again. The Bentley was _also _coming up fast. She could see the false Staunton behind the wheel. He wasn't going to have room to pass her safely, with that huge Bentley of his.

Emma made a split second decision. The real Patrick Staunton _hadn't _been bloody when he'd gotten into his car at Knight Industries – he _was _bloody now. Which meant the false Patrick Staunton probably had something to do with it. And the fact that now the false Staunton was chasing the real one... instead of the other way about...

The person being chased was always the one who should be helped...fugitive on the run...but then, she had liked the _false _one...and she flattered herself she was a good judge of character.

She would give him the room he needed.

Emma touched the binders and brought her car as close to the verge as she could.

The Bentley rolled past her. Emma glanced over - the false Staunton was staring straight ahead, concentrating on his quarry. He spared her not a glance.

Within a few seconds the Bentley was far in the distance.

"Hey ho," thought Emma, and pressed her own accelerator. Her blood was up now. She was going to follow this through to the bitter end.

The minutes passed...and Emma quite enjoyed the drive. She'd never driven this fast before, at least, not on anything but the straight line roads of the motorways...here she was taking the corners and accelerating into the flats just like a racing car driver. Her heat was pumping quickly with the exhilaration of it all.

**II.**

The village of Ffinchely was a peaceful one, with wide, broad streets. Patrick Staunton drove through the town at top speed. A little old lady pushing a pram stopped at the zebra crossing, looked both ways, and saw him zoom past her.

Looking after him and shaking her fist, she simultaneously stepped into the crossing.

There was a screech of brakes, and the Bentley came to a halt inches from the zebra crossing.

There was another screech of brakes, and the Bentley jolted forward just a little bit, as if a car behind it had gently tapped its bumper.

The little old lady increased her speed across the crossing and reached the safety of the other side. "Bloody hooligans!" she cried as she hurried away.

The false Patrick Staunton stepped out of his Bentley and walked round to the back.

He raised his eyebrow, and his bowler, as he saw the occupant of the other car, who was sitting with her feet on the front seat and her bum on the seat rest.

"Mrs. Peel," he said. "We meet again."


	10. Chapter 10

The Year of Living Dangerously

Part I: January, 1965

Chapter Ten

**I.**

"We do indeed," said Emma, calmly. "But we were at cross purposes last time. I had thought you were someone else."

"I'd gotten that impression," the man said with a charming smile. He raised his bowler again. "The name's Steed. John Steed."

"Mr. Steed."

"Oh, just Steed, please."

"Very well, Steed. And you are...?"

He smiled again. "This is hardly the time or place to have a chat about bona fides, Mrs. Peel. There's a charming tearoom just a few blocks from here. May I buy you a cup of tea?"

Emma nodded. "Thank you."

"So, who did you think I was?" said Steed a few minutes later, as he placed a teacup and saucer in front of her, then sat down opposite with his own cup. They were in a corner booth of Ivy's Tea Room, with a lovely view of the Main Street from the large, plate glass windows. The rather large proprietress stood behind her counter at the far wall, polishing it furiously, seeming rather resentful that Steed had turned down her offer of cakes or biscuits with the tea.

Emma sipped the lukewarm liquid. Although her face betrayed nothing, she made a mental note to never have tea at this establishment again.

She watched Steed lift his own cup to his lips...inhale its aroma...and place the cup down again with finality.

"Who did you think I was?" he repeated.

"That's not the point," said Emma. "The question is, who actually are _you_?"

"Oh, I do a bit of work for the Ministry," said Steed airily. "Records and research. And right now I'm trying to find out about Knight Industries."

That hadn't really answered her question, Emma thought dryly. There were a lot of ministries...and every one of them probably had a records and research department.

"And why is the Ministry interested in Knight Industries?" she queried. "And in particular, in Professor Keller?"

She watched Steed's eyes narrow as he looked at her. "What do you know of Professor Keller?"

"Nothing more than I told you the last time. I haven't seen him since he was sacked, all those years ago."

"Yes," murmured Steed. "Neither has anyone else."

Emma nodded. "So it's Keller that you're really interested in, isn't it?"

"Why should you come to that conclusion?" asked Steed.

"A couple of people have been asking me about Keller recently. It's too much of a coincidence."

Steed nodded. "Yes, it's Keller I'm looking for." He leaned even closer, and smiled. "I'd like your help in finding him."

"_My _help?" said Emma, raising an eyebrow.

"Aren't you curious about what has happened to Keller? Why he has disappeared?."

"Well...yes, but..."

"But me no buts, Mrs. Peel." said Steed, leaning back, suddenly cheerful. "Something has happened to Professor Keller, and we need to find him. Your help will be invaluable."

He was trying to rush her into a decision, Emma thought dryly. Or, rather, rush her _and _charm her into a decision, whichever worked first.

But he wasn't being completely candid with her.

She would play along with him...bide her time...find out what was really going on. If Keller needed some kind of help...if she could make up for the injustice she'd perpetrated on him those many years ago...she would do so. And if that meant slapping this Steed down... she'd do that as well. She owed that much to Keller.

Emma shrugged. "Very well," she said, putting a trace of reluctance into her voice. "I'll help."

"Good."

"But how?" Emma demanded. "As I told you, I haven't seen him for years."

"It's quite a coincidence seeing you on this road," Steed said, lifting up his teacup again, gazing down at it somewhat cross-eyed and putting it down again, then gazing at her questioningly.

It was an open-ended statement. Emma recognized this immediately. She'd taken courses in this kind of communication at University. Open-ended statements were used to draw out the person with whom you were having a conversation. Very few people could sit in silence...most people rushed in to fill the void and answered what they thought you were asking, or what was actually on their mind...not what you'd actually asked.

"Perhaps," said Emma simply. She wasn't going to let him manipulate her! If he wanted to ask her a question he could jolly well ask her directly. She took another sip of the horrible tea to fill the pause and give Steed a chance to decide how _he _would continue.

"By the way," she said, "That bruise on your cheek. I do hope that wasn't caused by my little tap of your car earlier?"

Steed lifted a hand to his cheek. "Oh, no. No, it's nothing. Don't worry about it, Mrs. Peel."

"Well, I'm glad of that." she said.

She pushed her tea away and glanced casually at her watch. "Well, Steed, I must be getting back to London."

"But you won't forget about Professor Keller," he said, as he rose to his feet.

"Of course not. If you have any suggestions on how I can help you, I'd be pleased to hear them."

"Perhaps we could meet for dinner later tonight? I'll put several suggestions to you."

_Dinner_? _That was going a bit too far, too soon, wasn't it? Still...in for a penny_...

"Very well, Steed. Dinner tonight."

"Lovely. I'll pick you up..."

Emma held up a hand. "No, Steed. I'd rather meet you at a restaurant, so that I have my own car available."

"You're a prudent woman," he told, with what appeared to be an approving smile. "Shall we say, Francesca's, at eight o'clock?"

"Eight o'clock. I'll be there."


End file.
